Fingers

The night we arrived in Boston (on our way to Maine), our hotel had some kind of restaurant crisis. They offered only a sad, sad buffet.

[Please note that I think this "crisis" and the "only for tonight" explanation is a lie. When we returned to the hotel last night we ran into a family who had just been told the same story - note same night of the week - and were trying to find a way to feed their 3 grumpy kids. But back to us:]

We fled across the parking lot to Floramo's. I described it before: this is red-checked tablecloth Italian (plus BBQ!) (and seafood!) without the need for those silly table cloths.

But here's what I wanted to say about it today: check out that pour.

Flying across the country (through JFK, not my favorite airport) tries one's nerves. It does. One needs a little something to help one to relax so one does not respond badly to yet another complaint about the lack of Legos, climate, food, drink, darkness, absence of a pool, need for the bathroom...

We ordered whisky. I had to go look at the bar to pick one because our waitress was adorably ignorant. But out it came and what a lovely sight. Here in Utah whisky in a restaurant would look like a slightly moist glass. You'd think, "Huh. I think they rinsed it with whisky."

Not in Boston. Two solid fingers. Welcome to the northeast - a place I loved when I lived there and still love today. Bugs and all.